60. Mikhail

You have to choose. If you don't… you'll lose me either way.

Viviana's voice follows me down the stairs and through the mansion. The words play on a loop in the back of my head as I start my car and drive numbly through the dark.

I don't know if it's the way I am or the way my father raised me to be, but I don't doubt myself. Ever. I make a decision based on the information in front of me and I know it's the right thing to do. Even if everything goes to shit, I know I did the best I could with what I had.

But since the moment I followed Viviana back to her apartment and saw that little boy with my eyes hiding behind her legs, I've had doubts.

Should I have stopped her from leaving the bridal suite the night I saved her from Trofim?

Was bringing her and Dante back to my mansion the safest decision for them?

Am I bringing death and loss into their lives or was it there from the beginning?

It's a nonstop mental assault of doubt and guilt and worry that doesn't go away no matter what I do, no matter what I choose.

So how can I choose this?

I park the car and climb out before I fully realize where I am. My feet find the grass and, even in the dark, I pick my way down the familiar path.

The air is cold. My breath fogs against the black sky. When I sink to my knees, the frozen ground pushes back. It's the first time I've stopped moving in… shit, days, maybe. Weeks. My restless joints want to riot, but I sink down in the crunchy grass.

"Viviana was right," I mutter. "I've been away too much."

There is no response. It used to be my favorite thing about this place. As bleak as it was to come here, I could say what I thought—what I felt—without any judgment.

Now, there are so many things I'd like to ask Alyona. I want to hear what she'd say.

I study the weather-rounded edges of her tombstone. "I wasn't there for you at the end. I couldn't save you. But before that… did you feel alone?"

"Yes."

I startle for half a second before I recognize the deep voice. I clench my teeth without turning around. "You shouldn't be here, Anatoly."

My brother appears in my peripheral vision. He bends down, laying two roses on the ground in front of me. "When I saw you driving away, I grabbed these from the vase on the dining room table. I figured you were coming here."

"You shouldn't be here," I repeat. "You should be?—"

"Watching Viviana and Dante? Yeah, I know. That's what I always do."

I snap my eyes to him. "If you want to complain about your workload, now isn't a great time. It's been a shitty day."

He stares down at the flowers and shakes his head. "I'm not complaining. I never do. Not now. Not when it was Alyona and Anzhelina I was watching, either."

"You were the only other person I trusted to take care of them."

"Which is why I was there… all the time," he explains, glancing over at me. "Alyona joked a few times that I was her common law husband because of how much time I spent at the house with her and Anzhelina."

"We were at war," I grit out. "I don't know how many times I have to explain this. People were trying to kill us. I was the only thing standing between my family and death."

And I failed.

The twin headstones in front of me prove that well enough. Anzhelina's is so small.

"I'll be the first to admit that I don't know what that kind of pressure feels like," Anatoly says. "I mean, I've never had a real family. I had my mom, until Trofim took her from me. And I always had you, even when you were a punk little kid. Now, there's Raoul, too. But growing up, I wanted a mom and dad. I wanted family dinners and vacations and all of that Norman Rockwell bullshit." He sighs. "I'd give all of this up in a second if I could have that."

You have to choose. If you don't… you'll lose me either way.

"You don't have to choose. Who says you have to choose?" I drive my knuckles into the cold ground, frustration buzzing through my veins. "People work and they have families. No one else needs to choose."

Anatoly turns to me, eyebrow arched. "Are you actually comparing yourself to the suit-and-tie type? Your life couldn't be more different from theirs. Unless you really think most white collar men have a body count."

"That's not the point."

"It is, though," he insists. "Our world is different. It's dangerous and bloody. As much as I like all of that most of the time, it's not what I want to live for. I want people to come home to, more than I want people to defend, if that makes sense."

I wish it didn't.

As soon as I saw Viviana and Dante together—as soon as I understood who they were to me—I felt an overwhelming urge to protect them. A few times, I've been able to forget about protecting them long enough to take in the whole experience. When we get out of the city and away from all of the chaos, the picture sharpens and I can take in the finer details.

When Dante slides his hand in mine while we're walking aimlessly through the trees.

The way Viviana curls against my chest in her sleep.

Right now, those tiny moments are all crushed under the weight of responsibility.

"I think I was getting close with Stella," Anatoly admits quietly. He swipes a hand over his face, but it's too dark to see if he's crying. Even if he is, I don't want to see it. I feel shitty enough as it is. "But I didn't move fast enough and… I lost her."

I shake my head. "I lost her. I should've known Pyotr was a spy. If I'd been paying attention, then?—"

He holds up a hand to stop me. "I didn't come here to blame you, Mikhail. I don't blame you. I never did. I'm just here to tell you that the world we grew up in is a tiny sliver of what's possible out there. And if you want to test some of those other options out… well, no one would blame you."

He says it like it's as simple as trying on a hat. Slipping one off and popping another one on.

What he's suggesting, what Viviana is asking—it isn't some minor thing. They're asking me to give up who I am. Who I've been for thirty-five years.

"I can't. You know I can't. Too many people depend on me."

"Because you don't give us a choice!" Anatoly laughs. "You take on everything by yourself and don't give anyone else a chance to figure it out on their own. But I promise you, the men you lead are capable. They'll land on their feet even if you aren't there to catch them."

I know he's right, but… "This is our family's legacy."

He turns to me, his eyes wide and clear. "You're my pakhan and I respect the hell out of you. But I'm also your brother, so please hear me when I say, Fuck our family's legacy."

A surprised laugh bursts out of me. "Otets is probably rolling in his shallow grave hearing that."

"Good," he spits. "It's what the fucker deserves. He definitely doesn't deserve your loyalty."

"I'm not loyal to him. I'm not doing any of this for him."

"Okay." Anatoly slides his hands in his pockets. "Then who are you doing it for?"

The question hangs in the air between us, unanswered and unanswerable.

After a beat, Anatoly pats me on the shoulder. "I'll see you at home." His crunching steps grow quieter until they're gone.

"Who the fuck am I doing this for?" I whisper to myself.

When I decided to overthrow Trofim and take the Bratva for myself, I was doing it for me. I'd lost Alyona and Anzhelina. I had nothing else—no one else. The last thing I wanted was for the only other constant in my life to be run into the ground because my brother was an incompetent psychopath.

Being pakhan made sense then.

Now, I have Viviana and Dante.

Does it still make sense?

"She's right," I breathe. "Viviana is right. This world is killing them. It's destroying us. The way it destroyed you."

I could have taken Alyona and Anzhelina and fled the city. I wasn't pakhan yet; we could have outrun the war and lived a quiet life. But I stayed. I stayed and I fought in my father's war because I thought it was my duty. That misplaced loyalty cost my family their lives.

I already lost one family to the Bratva.

I won't lose another.